Celestial Spies
© Surazeus
2018 02 23
The weird god-shaped cloud in the silver sky
who sees me everywhere wants to know why
I cannot make dead trees grow angel wings,
but I ignore how deep his comment stings
while carving curses and blessings in sand
that prove I am the wizard of the land.
The girl who rides home on the yellow bus,
amused at how her mother makes a fuss
about her future illustrious career,
wears the boy-mask when the love ghost glows near
because wisdom laughs hidden in the code
that assigns names of the dead to each road.
When the bus of lost souls is running late
on spindly giraffe legs to the pearly gate,
where angels search in vain for broken harps,
I map the way home on top-secret charts,
but wander nameless in the wilderness
to play the wizard of true happiness.
If I move sideways just right in the beams
of sunlight slanting through the church of dreams
to calculate the curve of perfect souls,
who know the arcane nature of black wholes,
I might unveil the ancient tune of light
that will crystallize structure of Soul Sight.
Who would remember that moment of truth
when the priest disguised as the physics sleuth
envisioned from how the hot water boils
pressure will pump the piston on tight coils
when heat of expanding air pops the lid,
so now we drive cars on vast highway grid.
Each sacred moment of epiphany
in whole progress of human history
the archivist with morning-silver eyes
compiles in books stored in the ancient archives
to preserve the moment each human brain
discovers the secret of falling rain.
Expanding air, heated by flames of light,
pushes against objects with forceful might,
since every atom in the universe
pulses with energy that will coerce
other atoms to move in shining waves
that sing wisdom to us huddled in caves.
When we speak the names of people long dead
this conjures apparitions in our head
so though they do not exist in real form
they seem to wrestle with gods in the storm,
thus people worship idol of the air
in the ghost of Jesus who is nowhere.
We beam the visions of our brains in words
that photograph our souls in eyes of birds
who lead us through the labyrinth of dreams
to apple trees on shores of gushing streams
where we first realize that we are real
and the clever thief wants to make a deal.
I sit among the bare trees glowing gold
and wonder the human race is so old
since we first crawled along bright river streams
and rose wet to eat fruit in morning beams
then raced with horses to explore the Earth
and assign every thing its fiscal worth.
I learned to conjure spells of worthless truth
banging guitar with melodies uncouth
while singing riddles on the city street
to people going somewhere on quick feet
by chasing rainbows for rich pot of coins
since we reincarnate through eager loins.
I stare into the abyss of my mind
and laugh at the secrets I always find,
how everything is formed from pulsing atoms
evolving from plants into divine phantoms
who think we are gods in human disguise
because maybe we are celestial spies.
The secrets we encode in freakish dreams
we reveal when we organize sports teams
to compete against gods to rule this globe
by measuring time with the temporal lobe
which generates small virtual world of things
our brains design when our First Mother sings.
I wear the mask of Hamlet on the stage
where I express in weird riddles my rage
against the machine of the tyrant god
who sits on the throne with the iron rod
he wields to rule us for two thousand years
by preaching the hell fire of numbing fears.
The weird god-shaped cloud in the silver sky
who dreams the changing world through my blind eye
makes priests and preachers dance on puppet strings
while giving fools like me strong angel wings
so I write new bible no one will read
that praises scientists who study need.
Apollo snatches my heart from my breast
then sends me to Earth on strange futile quest
to discover where all young mothers go
by transforming my heart into White Crow,
but still I wander singing in the skies
because we really are celestial spies.
© Surazeus
2018 02 23
The weird god-shaped cloud in the silver sky
who sees me everywhere wants to know why
I cannot make dead trees grow angel wings,
but I ignore how deep his comment stings
while carving curses and blessings in sand
that prove I am the wizard of the land.
The girl who rides home on the yellow bus,
amused at how her mother makes a fuss
about her future illustrious career,
wears the boy-mask when the love ghost glows near
because wisdom laughs hidden in the code
that assigns names of the dead to each road.
When the bus of lost souls is running late
on spindly giraffe legs to the pearly gate,
where angels search in vain for broken harps,
I map the way home on top-secret charts,
but wander nameless in the wilderness
to play the wizard of true happiness.
If I move sideways just right in the beams
of sunlight slanting through the church of dreams
to calculate the curve of perfect souls,
who know the arcane nature of black wholes,
I might unveil the ancient tune of light
that will crystallize structure of Soul Sight.
Who would remember that moment of truth
when the priest disguised as the physics sleuth
envisioned from how the hot water boils
pressure will pump the piston on tight coils
when heat of expanding air pops the lid,
so now we drive cars on vast highway grid.
Each sacred moment of epiphany
in whole progress of human history
the archivist with morning-silver eyes
compiles in books stored in the ancient archives
to preserve the moment each human brain
discovers the secret of falling rain.
Expanding air, heated by flames of light,
pushes against objects with forceful might,
since every atom in the universe
pulses with energy that will coerce
other atoms to move in shining waves
that sing wisdom to us huddled in caves.
When we speak the names of people long dead
this conjures apparitions in our head
so though they do not exist in real form
they seem to wrestle with gods in the storm,
thus people worship idol of the air
in the ghost of Jesus who is nowhere.
We beam the visions of our brains in words
that photograph our souls in eyes of birds
who lead us through the labyrinth of dreams
to apple trees on shores of gushing streams
where we first realize that we are real
and the clever thief wants to make a deal.
I sit among the bare trees glowing gold
and wonder the human race is so old
since we first crawled along bright river streams
and rose wet to eat fruit in morning beams
then raced with horses to explore the Earth
and assign every thing its fiscal worth.
I learned to conjure spells of worthless truth
banging guitar with melodies uncouth
while singing riddles on the city street
to people going somewhere on quick feet
by chasing rainbows for rich pot of coins
since we reincarnate through eager loins.
I stare into the abyss of my mind
and laugh at the secrets I always find,
how everything is formed from pulsing atoms
evolving from plants into divine phantoms
who think we are gods in human disguise
because maybe we are celestial spies.
The secrets we encode in freakish dreams
we reveal when we organize sports teams
to compete against gods to rule this globe
by measuring time with the temporal lobe
which generates small virtual world of things
our brains design when our First Mother sings.
I wear the mask of Hamlet on the stage
where I express in weird riddles my rage
against the machine of the tyrant god
who sits on the throne with the iron rod
he wields to rule us for two thousand years
by preaching the hell fire of numbing fears.
The weird god-shaped cloud in the silver sky
who dreams the changing world through my blind eye
makes priests and preachers dance on puppet strings
while giving fools like me strong angel wings
so I write new bible no one will read
that praises scientists who study need.
Apollo snatches my heart from my breast
then sends me to Earth on strange futile quest
to discover where all young mothers go
by transforming my heart into White Crow,
but still I wander singing in the skies
because we really are celestial spies.
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